


Sherlock's Butterfly

by Super_Who_Locked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Butterfly, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:53:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Super_Who_Locked/pseuds/Super_Who_Locked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs Mycroft for brotherly support more than ever</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Butterfly

Blood pounded through Sherlock’s head and his ears roared as he stood in the middle of 221B, holding a piece of paper with the sloppy quick handwriting of a doctor sprawled across it. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and he felt uncomfortable in his own skin. The room seemed to spin around him as he tried to make out the words on the note, his hands sticky with blood. John’s Blood. Sherlock bit his bottom lip, trying to stop it from quivering. He gave up trying to read the note and fell to his knees at the still warm, but heartbeat-less, body of Doctor John H. Watson. Sherlock flinched as a hand touched his shoulder. It was Mycroft’s. Sherlock looked up to his older brother, hurt oozing out of every pore in his body. Mycroft choked, he hadn’t seen Sherlock look at him like that since they were kids.  
“Mycroft, fix it” Sherlock demanded, holding out a little orange and black winged butterfly in his small hands. Mycroft looked at Sherlock, pained, and did not know what to say. His younger brother knew little about death. Their mother had kept the scarring of death away from the young boy, explaining to Sherlock that Mycroft and his father would not be coming home. Sherlock accepted it at the time. That was three years ago.  
“Sherlock…” Mycroft started, but Sherlock already knew what he was going to say. Tears welled in his hurt eyes and he set the lifeless creature on dining room table. Mycroft stopped himself from commenting about the expensive table cloth and took his brother into an embrace. Sherlock sobbed heavily into his brother’s white dress shirt, Mycroft did not stop him.  
“My croft…” Sherlock began but couldn’t get the words out.  
“I know.”   
“He… they… they killed him anyways Mycroft” Sherlock could barely get his words out. Mycroft shushed him and held his little brother’s head against his shirt.   
After Sherlock had faked his death, John learned to live without Sherlock; but just barely. John lived each day, numb, with a cane in his hands. Because Mycroft kept tabs with Sherlock, he also kept surveillance in 221B, to reassure his baby brother that his precious doctor was alright. When the men broke in, Mycroft notified every man he had, but it wasn’t enough. By the time Lestrade go there, John was bleeding to death in his arms, desperately scrabbling words onto a piece of paper with his final pen strokes.  
“But, it was so beautiful” Sherlock began to grow angry. Mycroft ran his hands through Sherlock’s dark curly hair trying to comfort him, but Sherlock shoved him away in anger.  
“Why did it have to die?!” Sherlock was demanding through tears of fury and confusion.  
“All things die one day Sherlock. You must accept that,” Mycroft looked at his younger brother sadly. Sherlock picked up the butterfly sadly and carried it back to their yard. He began digging a hole to bury the fragile insect.   
“Mycroft. I- I didn’t get to tell him…” Mycroft stopped him.  
“He knows Sherlock.”  
“But-“ Sherlock was beginning to fall apart. He swallowed, attempting to compose himself and picked up the letter again.  
Dear Sherlock, the note read. Sherlock couldn’t read any more before bursting into silent sobbing. He couldn’t breathe. Sherlock could feel himself drowning in his own tears. Sherlock had not cared for, let alone put them in front of his own safety, ANYONE before. Sherlock cared for John more than all of the cases, all of the drugs,all of, well everything, and Sherlock never got to tell him.  
“Oh God John… This is... It’s all my fault. Please… I-” Sherlock barely choked out. Mycroft stood back, a tear streaming down his cheek. John was a good man, and with Sherlock an even better one. John had broken after he lost Sherlock, but was a soldier. John pulled through losing Sherlock, but Sherlock, on the other hand, was unpredictable and heart-broken.   
“I am sorry Sherlock.” Mycroft watched his brother set a tiny flower on the tiny grave.   
“It’s not like it is your fault” Sherlock tried to hide the pain and anger in his voice. Mycroft set his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder then walked back into their house.   
“Good bye,” Sherlock whispered under his breath and followed his brother inside.  
“John knows, Sherlock” Mycroft assured his brother. Sherlock did not buy it. He held John’s lifeless body in his long thin arms, his face twisted with sorrow and pain. He just wanted, no, NEEDED to tell John.   
John was Sherlock’s Butterfly.


End file.
